| Bookshelf Art by Yuriko Takata | ||
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The "Poets Hall Of Fame" has been a part of the program structure for the Sacramento International Poetry Festival ever since it’s humble beginnings back in 1999. It was created in order to give recognition to poets who, over a period of many years have faithfully and consistently demonstrated a self sacrificing spirit in behalf of the poetry/literary community. Through a combination of hard work and tireless effort, both individually and as a group, they have made a positive contribution to the “state of poetry”. In addition, by sharing with others their valuable skills and experience, have not only helped to promote poetry/literary concerns, but have also helped to create a treasure trove of priceless memories. Therefore in reality they have not only been instrumental in laying a solid “foundation” for the literary community, they have actually become “part of the foundation” that the literary community is built upon. |
Recognition Award
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Traci L. Gourdine |
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Traci L. Gourdine chairs the California State Summer School for the
Arts
(CSSSA) Creative Writing Department, with which she has been associated
since 1991. Her poetry has appeared in many literary magazines. Recently, her story Graceful Exits, was published in the new Norton anthology entitled, Sudden Fiction Continued. She currently teaches at American River College and has lectured and taught at many California colleges and universities. For 8 years she taught creative writing within the California Arts in Corrections program. |
We Went Home After This |
How He Stayed |
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Our clothes flew off the roof of the car The old station wagon smelling of wood and leather was full up with us four kids loose and rolling unhindered like apples out of a bag For years I saw slivers of this night and wondered Did dark clothes fly off that car Did the suitcases spring their jaws and cough our lives into the night? I remember kneeling on the seat to face backwards and view my mother out in the night My beautiful mother gathering up our tossed belongings strewn like litter in the wind Her face changed at each strobe of passing headlights And I remember watching, for once stilled at the way her face changed from assured calm, from motherly endurance into something else I didn't know it then, but I was watching a woman who had made some type of decision She was no more than 32. Too young to have 4 quick kids Too young to be so hurt, she thought it best to run before he, my father, wandered home to find No dinner, no fighting kids, no barking dog in need of a walk No wife self-exiled in the bathroom pacing a three foot space I'd only know later at 32, then at 35, and most definitely at 40 what my mother's face in headlights meant what the face of a woman looks like when leaving, when running off 4 kids,some money, and slammed shut suitcases Seems like a vacation to 4, seems like a good idea to her But this is what I recall most of all How she stood still for a moment there in sweeps of light, our clothes balled up in her arms like dirty laundry, she let us see her she saw us too faces in the station wagon all of us watching, some of us learning memories of her failed escape © Traci L. Gourdine |
Someone's little girl sits on the worn warm
of backdoor steps Summer afternoon, half asleep yet full she is licking the old sweet of something stained around her mouth The air feels strange There is a rush from indoors flannel trousers come sudden with a suitcase and a door slams, a plate or glass breaks but a father keeps going. Keeps moving the air in such a way Someone's little girl calls sticky questions high pitched against his hurry "Where ya goin' Poppy?" She knows he was different somehow It's the way light hits the ground, how her collapsed doll becomes ugly and frayed looks too specific, how he, her father trys to keep going but stumbles a bit as if his legs are too heavy she knows how This is different than 'no milk in the house', a letter to be mailed This is different than some buddy broken down without gas This rush of air is some strange grownup wind one she'd grow up to identify from the stillness in a house in a bed, across a room Such a wind can't tousle hair, shake a curtain hem but sweeps up everything leaving building in sunshine and people in ruin She'd learn But back then the wind stalls, it folds, loosens its grip on him Her father comes to share the worn warm hides his shame in his hands says between his fingers, "I could never walk away from you." So he stays © Traci L. Gourdine |
Recognition Award
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B. L. Kennedy |
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Born & raised in the Bronx, NY, B.L. Kennedy
was lured
to
California years ago by its once free college system.
In his poetry, like a shaman, he inhabits both worlds simultaneously. Carrying within him a continuing tradition of the New York/San Francisco cafe poetry scene, he has infused Sacramento with a much-needed live poetry mania via the many poetry series he's created. He convinced a mayor to declare an official Poetry Day, won numerous awards & grants, published repeatedly in book & magazine formats, all the while actively promoting the talents of others. He is currently working on a biography of d.a. levy, as well as a collection of his trademark “picture poems.” |
Sonnet from: All That We Need Now Is |
Sonnet from: All That We Need Now Is |
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1 The brightness of this room roars trembling echoic voice & the epithalium of secret alphabets from where I sit in fogged nostalgia of California. Far away from the luminosity of lovers who decidedly deny love, its dysfunctional whispers of sheltered glass shattered worlds from brain to mouth, Its political elite elucidates & stalks with blind effulgence the hidden histories of the western lands & the resurrection of fear without the effort of lies seeping Through doors & window from concrete vanities & bleed from their ordained skulls to mine. © B.L. Kennedy |
75 And like in the movie the evening star appears in the sky. It's the first and brightest of the night, and I wish like all those who have wished throughout time and know that "I will not live to watch it blossom with temperance, fortitude and love." The evening star lives. Its wonders are kept in your heart and mine. Its lineage shines across the heavens. It does not stay hidden in clouds. Its brightness covers the world. And, as we live our dreams, It appears majestic in midsummer sky. © B.L. Kennedy |
Recognition Award
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Joe Montoya |
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Joe is a San Diego born writer married to Jane, and has three children,
Joey-22, Steven-19, and Angie-16. He has written poetry for 25 years and is the founder of the highly successful series, Poetry Unplugged, held Thursday nights at Luna’s Café, in Sacramento. In the past four years, the series has received ‘THE BEST OF SACRAMENTO’ award presented by the Sacramento News and Review. Joe collaborates with the Sacramento band, “TATTOOED LOVE DOGS”, co-founded by his brother, Vincent. Song, “Who Knows” appears on “GNASHVILLE”and three songs, “Sometime never comes”, “Trap”and “Tomorrow”, are on the groups’ second CD, “OKLAHOMADEJANEIRO”. He has featured on Sacramento’s FM station FM 100.1, Fresno’s KFCF “Poetry to take you home by” and Frank Andrick’s KUSF show from San Francisco. He has been the featured poet in series around northern California including performances at CSUS, Sacramento City College, Solano Junior College, Sierra JC and Bella Vista High School. Additionally, he has featured for The Sacramento Poetry Center, Poetry Works Jazz & Poetry Series, Tower Books, Borders, Barnes and Noble, Sierra Nevada Music Festival, Poets Playhouse in Nevada City, and the Heritage Festival in Davis. Joe also was featured at the first annual Floricanto Writers Conference, in San Jose, alongside premier Chicano writers and educators, Juan Felipe Herrera, Margarita Luna Robles and Alurista. The “Joe Montoya Band” is his most recent project that uniquely combines spoken word and music. He is the oldest son of internationally acclaimed poet, teacher and artist, Jose Montoya, and brother of Hollywood and stage talent, Richard Montoya, founding member of the hit comedy trio, “CULTURE CLASH”. |
1999 Hall Of Fame Recipients
Ethel Mack Ballard
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